


seamless

by curtailed



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Crapsack Alternia, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Depression, Double Penetration, Drugged Sex, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Gang Rape, Hemospectrum, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Multi, Painful Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Oral Sex, Sadstuck, Slurs, Unsafe Sex, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:20:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21946471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curtailed/pseuds/curtailed
Summary: There's rarely an incentive to leave your hive these days -- you hate to be that one troll that's known for being an absolute loser, just moping away in the interiors of the hive until they die from neglect, but you can only breathe in the smell of his clothes for so long. They're all worn and soft now in your hands. One day you'll have to dispose of them in the incinerator, but currently you're lounging on the couch, fingering yourself to the thought of him.
Relationships: Karkat Vantas/Original Character(s), Sollux Captor/Karkat Vantas
Comments: 8
Kudos: 32





	seamless

**Author's Note:**

> So I realized I haven't written Solkat fluff in a long time...and as a Christmas "present" I decided to keep it that way for a while.
> 
> So yeah -- please pay attention to the tags. Technically, there's a lot worse I could to do to Karkat, but midway I kinda started gagging through -- so. 
> 
> Yeah. 
> 
> Have a nice holiday.

There's rarely an incentive to leave your hive these days -- you hate to be that _one troll_ that's known for being an absolute loser, just moping away in the interiors of the hive until they die from neglect, but you can only breathe in the smell of his clothes for so long. They're all worn and soft now in your hands. One day you'll have to dispose of them in the incinerator, but currently you're lounging on the couch, fingering yourself to the thought of him.

_Just imagine him straddling you, pushing you down onto the cushions._

Easy enough. Your masturbation is systemic and dispassionate; only a leak of red genetic material oozes from your bulge when you finish. The first time you'd done to his memory, long after you manually repaired the hive, you had came screaming and sobbing his name into your fist, the kind of orgasm that knocks you to instant-drowse the moment the hormones settle back into normalcy. Nowadays you learn better. There's nothing remotely erotic about jerking off to a matesprit that -- for all purposes and intents -- is completely, utterly gone to you.

You know you're depressed. You're not stupid enough to head out to the pharmacy, mainly because they only provide service to _midbloods or higher,_ and you have to rely on remedial food and water to keep your head above the waves for right now. Sometimes you drift to the pub, where lowbloods mingle in the shadows and drink straight-hard soporific and hope to Gog they don't pass out in the alleys by daytime. 

You, for a good use of the word, are drowning.

Friends. You still have them, but most of them either got culled or are so off-world they might as well be the same fate to you. None of their Trollian handles light up with colored icons; even if they're alive, they don't have the energy or will to reach out. You only sought one of your friends once after maturation, and you had planned to catch up at your hive.

Instead, you fucked right on the rug, his legs slung over your shoulders, him pleading your name softly when both of you came in high, hot spurts.

He told you he had a thing for you since six sweeps -- or maybe even earlier, but wigglerhood-wise the feelings had been fairly nebulous and ambiguous. Post-six they had settled into deep, pure redrom, the kind you'd pay good money to watch on your husktop, and he always wanted to confess to you but -- well --

"A lot of things were happening," he finished lamely. Honestly, he continued, he really didn't intend to screw you the moment you reunited for three sweeps -- but he never fell out of pity for you. And he'd totally understand if you didn't return his feelings or reciprocate, because -- to be frank -- who actually would --

You employ the "shut up and kiss me" tactic you're too overly fond of.

It's amusing, sometimes, to retreat back into your memories when both of you were still alive. There's a whole damn library to choose from; movie watching, coon cuddling, panblowing sex, wistful reminiscences, vitriolic-yet-compassionate friendship -- the list goes on. In hindsight your whole matespritship is efficiently summarized into words; disyllabic words that diluted all the deep, overwhelming emotions you had for him and distilled it into something dry, because he's not around to keep it alive.

You never stopped loving him. And you hate yourself for your inability to just, fucking, _let it_ go.

You miss Sollux. 

Really.

====

Still, even if you aren't hauling ass outside to get some required medication you still have to poke your snout out for food. You don't eat much, and ever since the hive's quota's been returned to one resident you don't buy much either. A grubloaf or two and a good flask of soporific is more than enough to cart you forward for a few days. 

Tonight is cold and crisp and clear. Actually -- you're feeling pretty rewarding to yourself, since you just got past another week without being culled, and maybe -- just _maybe_ \-- you could treat yourself to a quick, nice meal at the corner shop. It's manned by a relatively affable oliveblood who doesn't bitch about the 'spectrum like most loons, and even ofters you free water canteens if you stay past dawn. They provide decent sandwiches, if you have to be candid.

It's not sandwiches that greet you at the store this time.

You sit at your usual corner -- far away from the entrance, hood pulled over your face so your eyes don't give you away -- and you nibble quietly away at a slice of grubmeat. Highbloods don't come around to gutterblood places like these. At most there'll be some rowdy midbloods, or some extremely-inebriated tealblood with the wrong map, and the mere atmosphere of the place's enough to deter higher nobility. 

"Barkeep," a voice says, and every instinct you have flares in alarm.

There's three -- four -- highbloods standing at the entrance. All of them landdwellers. From your vantage point you spot cerulean, indigo, _purple_ \-- the highest of the highest castes -- and you try your best not to turn your head, not to make any motion at all. You fucked up. You should've just gone to the shop, swipe away some loaves, you don't need this luxury you stupid _grubfucker --_

"Who's that lovely troll over there?" the purpleblood's saying, leaning close to the oliveblood.

To his credit, he doesn't flinch from her spit. "I don't know. Some patreon." His lie is flawless, really. Completely believable. 

"Oh? So I should go over and get to know him better, shouldn't I?"

The oliveblood fidgets a little. "I mean, I don't know if he wants to be disturbed -- "

You'd think you were caught in a movie -- the purpleblood snaps her wrist in a light-speed motion, and then the oliveblood's head is crashing onto the counter. Yellow-green blood spills onto the surface, staining the glasses in thick drops. The other highbloods rumble with laughter.

"You," she's calling out to you, twirling her stained scimitar in her hand. "Come over here."

Your feet move before your mind catches up; instincts scream at you to _run,_ to tear pell-mell out of the place and back, and then common rationale squashes it down. She'll sink the blade into your spine before you make it five steps. Instead, you force yourself to walk at a normal pace, dread finally pooling in your gut.

If she wants money, you'll give her money -- _just don't ask me to remove my hood, for the love of Gog --_

"Don't be shy," she calls out to you, pulling out her own flash from her belt. "We don't have all night. Just lemme see your face -- "

You've heard too many horror stories of this scenario; they're drunk, you realize, but not enough -- they're in the dangerous zone of half-sober, half-drenched-in-sopor that doesn't turn off their murdeous instincts but leaves their mind still befuddled, like trying to grasp at invisible strings. They could kill you and cut your head right off your shoulders without a second thought, and you realize how hard you're _shaking,_ as if your bones are trying to cut through your very own skin.

"I'm," your voice is as dry as sandpaper, "I'm -- I need to be going somewhere -- "

Wrong _fucking_ thing to say. In one swift motion she's grabbed your wrist, twisting it so hard that for a moment you thought it'd snap, and you're already closing your eyes and waiting for her scimitar to slice through your neck, severing all the aortas and vessels --

"Wow," she breathes.

Cold terror crashes in your chest when you realize what she saw; she saw your _eyes,_ however brief, wide in fear under your hood. Then she's tugging back the cowl and forcing your eyelids open and you're _thrashing,_ but you're a mutantblood and she's a hundred castes higher than you, and her grip on your wrist feels like she could squeeze the nerves out straight through your skin.

"Stay the _fuck_ still," she grows, yanking you so close you're face-to-face with her horns, "or I'll eat your fucking eyes out, you _hear me_?"

Adrenaline and dread both battle for control in your body -- your heart's pounding furiously against your ribs, every ounce of blood migrated into your torso, and this sickening _warmth_ that rushes to your head makes you dizzy -- you haven't eaten or drank anything for a good while, you haven't been sleeping well, and now she's staring at you like she wants to chew you alive. The other trolls around you are deathly still.

"Pretty," she whispers, tracing a jagged thumbnail under your eye. "We always have mutants popping up here and there, and you know what we do to them?" She doesn't wait for your expected reply. "We kill them on the spot -- " her voice drops to a low murmur -- "right on the street. Hack off their heads right in front of the others. Sometimes we make others lick up their blood."

You don't dare to move a muscle.

"But your color's so pretty," she continues to whisper, rough vocalizations that make the hairs on your neck stand up. "Never seen any like it. So _fucking_ pretty -- it'd be a shame if I just spilled it right here, wouldn't it?"

A flicker of hope flares up in your chest -- maybe they'll just beat you up, toss you around, but at least they'll let you _survive_ \--

Something cold presses against your lower lip.

The purpleblood's got her flash pressed against your mouth, and on pure reflext you jerk your head away -- someone else's hand crashes into your cheek, the pain cold and shocking, and then strong, cruel fingers are pinching your jaw --

"Drink it," the purpleblood rasps, "or I'll cut off your head and shit down your neck."

She's gripping her scimitar loosely, like it's a fucking toy to her, and you -- you _can't,_ you _know_ what's inside the flask, but you have to drink it because you still value your rubbish, worthless life somehow, because you're still hoping --

_still hoping that he comes back_

You drink the concoction in one swallow.

Its potency almost makes you pass out straight onto the ground -- and later you wish it had, so you didn't have to be conscious -- all the colors in your vision clash at once into this awful medley like stones slamming into each other, and it feels like a hundred needles are being stabbed into your retinas. Cold and hot air pound into your ears, your brain melting down into mush, and all you feel is the stone ground impacting with your kneecaps, pain rocketing up your legs and into your head. It tastes like _shit_ \-- like honest, organic-bred shit -- and it burns down your throat, pooling into your gut until your stomach's about to explode from your skin. Distantly you're aware that you've dropped the flask, and the _clang_ it makes as it hits the floor booms in your head like gunshots.

There's footsteps around you. There's _footsteps_ surrounding you, crowding in on you from all sides, and all you can do is gag and choke and try to tear out the _taste_ from your tongue, pounding the floor in frustration -- someone's twisting their fingers in your hair and the mere contact lights up your nerves like firecrackers -- tears of pain leak from your eyes as their nails rake down your scalp.

Someone's mocking faintly, their voice cutting and derogatory -- "he's a fucking _gutterblood_! Look at his fucking blood!" Their claws dig in harder, and warm, wet liquid drips down your face --

"Get off me -- " you're choking, gasping, black spots filling your vision. You try to tear yourself out of their grip, but someone else slams a foot hard into your spine and then you're on your hands and knees, watching tears drip down your nose -- you're being degraded into an animal, a filthy, depraved animal, and you can't even distinguish fear from how loud your heart's pulsing in your eardrums. Silhouettes are enclosing around you. There's horns of all shapes and sizes, colored eyes narrowed into malevolent slits, and you _know_ where this is going but you can't run because of whatever the fuck you drank and you're _helpless,_ there's no one to rescue you, not like last time --

_last time_

"Maybe we could just take turns -- "

"Do you wanna _fuck_ some dead rag? Might as well jam all a us in at once -- "

Last time it was just one troll, this burly, high-pitched ceruleanblood that had flattened you onto your back and his hands had been slipping down your pants and then it was the hum of psionics, like electric circuits on a computer left running overnight, and then his head ripped into paste and showers of cold blue blood, and Sollux didn't even slow down kicking the remnants of his skull away as he had hauled you to your feet, psionics ripping from his frame so hard they scorched the nearby walls --

"You're not thinking of fucking him _raw,_ aren't you?" They're not letting you go. You want your mind to split from your body, to disassociate from the inevitable pain, but all you can feel is a heel pressing you onto the floor, the nails sinking deep into your scalp and blood trickling down your cheeks like teardrops. "It's gonna be painful for him; gotta prepare him for this shit first."

"Like what, piss on him?"

There's a sharp intake of breath. "Sure," some other voice is saying, and then there's the sounds of pants unzipping and _finally_ you try to react, you fight against the pressure with every ounce of strength remaining --

Piss, cold and bitter and plain fucking disgusting, sprays across your face. Laughs clash in your ears, and a set of thick fingers pry open your mouth, and the stream gets aimed directly down your throat. Your eyelids squeeze shut at the sensation. It's _filthy,_ you being pissed on and someone else hooking their thumbs into your pants and dragging them down with false gentleness, and the urine is hitting your eyes, your nose, until all you smell is stale and sour and you _can't breathe, can't fucking breathe_ , but your muscles have ceased to obey you. You feel like a liquified puppet, your nerves completely shorted-out into dead wires. You want to scream and cry until you puke up your insides, let your red, venom-filled guts sprawl onto the ground. Instead they open your mouth wider, and no force on Alternia can make you vomit back up the urine, not when it's streaming directly into your guts. 

Then something cold touches your lip, and your eyes widen as you look up to a teal bulge brushing back and forth, still leaking piss onto your tongue, and you try to bite down on the fingers holding your mouth open --

" _FUCK!"_ The troll, whoever it is, slaps you _hard_ on the face -- all five claws ripping into your cheek -- and a new, raw wash of pain suffocates your brain. The bulge is rubbing along your tongue, cold geneslime trickling down your throat, and you -- there's no fucking way you can take its whole girth, even as its tip begins entering the curl of your throat -- and you _can't breathe,_ snot and tears and blood dribbling down your face like you're a madman. Pain ripples up your esophagus, your lungs desperately burning for air, and then whoever's fucking your throat _releases_ \--

"Stop," you're pleading, even as waves and waves of genetic material pound down your throat and you feel like your intestines can't take anymore of the fluid -- you can't take this much volume burning along the linings of your mouth and throat like it's made of acid, it's nothing like with Sollux, because you worshipped him when you sucked him off and he touched your horns lightly and told you you were precious, but he's _not here_ and they are, and the troll's pulling the bulge out of your mouth and you'd rather die than do it again, even if he pisses on you and shits on you and makes you suck him off, and the fingers never leave your hair, the nails never pull out of your scalp --

"Nook or chute, dipwad?"

"He's not even aroused," someone snarls, and a glob of spit hits between your shoulder blades. It oozes down the curve of your shoulder and you shudder in repulsion. "Maybe someone should fuck his ungrateful tight red pussy until we break his guts, make him _plead_ his trashblooded heart out. You want that, you lowblooded _whore?_ "

"No," you sob, but it comes out in a series of broken mumbles and gasps. "No, _don't_ \-- "

There's no lubrication of the sort, nothing to prepare your waste chute as a bulge enters it -- your mind completely blanks for a solid second in an effort to spare you from the pain, but then -- you're _howling,_ screaming, because you've never had this pain pressed against this rim of nerves before in this manner and you can't -- you _can't_ \-- you're making sounds, this endless stream of pleas and sobs and whimpers as they enter you deep and fast, even as someone else is prying your mouth open again -- and you _know what's happening,_ and you can't do a single damn thing to stop it. You've never felt so powerless before. The troll behind you's fucking you in sharp, snapping thrusts, thighs slapping against yours, and then a stained hand's sliding up your legs, sliding to where your nook and bulge lay --

 _Pain._ Pain like you've never felt it. Not even when the drones cut you into raw pieces, or when blades cut deep scores into your skin. You've never felt this pain as fingers twist into your nook, and your sickened, scum-festering body _responds_ \-- your bulge strains from behind its shield, because your brain thinks you're fucking _aroused_ and heat's pooling in your gut and another bulge, a different bulge, is slipping into your throat and there's hands touching you everywhere, digging into your ears, your throat, your ribs -- they're touching places only you've touched before, only

"Sollux..."

and you barely hear yourself, not when your throat's being rammed and and you feel your body's going to be torn apart from the agony shuddering through your bones, each inch of their skin. It's just them panting and moaning above you and someone roughly twisting your bulge around their fingers until your guts swell with lust, and you're imagining him -- but not even him pailing you, or vice versa. Your mind's feeding you a stream of images to keep you alive. You're seeing him at his computer, tapping away, you curled up in his lap, and then it's both of you in the ablutions chamber and he rinses you off with the carefulness of handling a newborn grub. You pail the first time and he kisses you on the mouth -- none of them kiss you, even grant you the smallest mercy -- but he did, and you hold onto his image, ephemeral as it is, because he's nothing more than a sack of skin and battery when you opened the door to your joint hive and found yellow blood streaking the carpet and walls. It took you three nights to clean up the mess.

"Sollux..." and your body's _begging_ your mind to release, to grant you this one moment of pleasure, and you're crying again but not from pain -- tears coat your face in merciless waves, because there is absolutely _no one_ that lives and gives a remote shit for you, and your senses are haywire -- someone slides in and out of your nook now, jolting your gene bladder until your guts are as swollen as ripe fruit, and when you gag the bulge enters deep into your throat and blood coats your teeth -- you're floating in this haze, this haze of reddish pulse and dreams, and all you remember is a mismatched set of eyes staring into your own, promising he'd never leave you, that he'd never stop loving you.

"Sollux -- "

And it's the memory of him -- not even _touching_ you, just holding your hand, kissing your palm -- that makes you sob and shriek in relief as your material ripples from your bulge. You came first; maybe you'll be killed for having such assumptions, for daring to find your sick, depraved pleasure before they did, but you come hard and bitter and painful and then their orgasms shudder through you with the force of a sword -- more slime chokes down your gullet, and for a terrifying moment you think you'll never breathe air again, and _so much_ gunk is poured into your openings below that you think your skin will split from sheer volume. Fluids of all color spray your back, your limbs, dripping down your clothes and hair and lips, almost immediately clammying up in the air. The bulge comes out of your throat first, and the others slip out without any regard for your pain at all, and it _burns_ as the organs slide out of your exits, leaving only raw, pulsing agony behind.

"Well," someone's saying, and you can barely focus on their words -- "okay, that's done -- "

"We should just slit his throat, that ragged piece of shit -- "

"Nah, we should reward him." Someone presses the heel of their foot against your bulge, and you gasp in pain. "I like seeing him all pretty and fucked. He makes the sweetest sounds."

"Maybe we can shit in his mouth -- "

"I got a better idea." Someone's pressing the edge of a knife to your horn, not that you particularly care about pain anymore. "Trashblood. I'm talking to you."

If you died, you think blearily, maybe you could see him again. You want to see him desperately. You haven't seen him for _sweeps._

"Clean the mess up." They shove your face into a puddle of slime and urine and sweat and blood and tears, and you don't even think twice; you're lapping it up, drooling in your thirst, and you let salt and bitter and rancor fill your throat once more. You drink from the puddle like it's an elixir. You drink and you think of him, and more tears join the puddle below, your clothes stained until they look like they're practically doused in dark dye, and you drag your tongue over the rough floor and you can taste the dirt and filth from the ground below, smearing across your gums and teeth. You mop up every drop until your abdomen's bulging from the liquids. All you hear is static buzzing, white noise filling your ears, their laughters cruel and callous and fading away as you finally grant yourself the kindness of losing consciousness.

====

You, logically, must've walked back to your hive.

You don't remember it. The world blurs in a kaleidoscope of colors, shimmering like fragmented mirrors, and all you remember is stargazing and staring up at the two moons and him a mere foot away, grinning through his dumb fangs, and you feel like you can float. Your thighs and mouth are stained in fluids. But it's fine; it's completely fine -- you're wearing this dopey smile and you're at peace, because, yes, the ordeal's been done and done and you can return back home, back to where your matesprit is. He'll be waiting for you. He waited for you all night.

You open -- or stumble into, rather -- the door, and there he is, sitting on the couch like he never left.

"Sollux," you say, and all your pains -- your bruises, your wounds, all the fluids smearing your thighs and torso -- they dwindle into distant throbs as Sollux takes your hand, rubs his thumb across your knuckles. You feel warm and light inside, like a balloon's swelling inside, as you watch him gently kiss your hand.

"Sollux," you repeat quietly, and his fangs brush your fingers.

"Don't worry about it, KK." He holds out his arms to you, and without a second's hesitation you're crawling into his embrace, letting yourself be enveloped in warm, staticky heat as his psionics brush across your skin. He holds you on his lap, bracing you alongside the cushions, and you're slobbering and breathing all over him, touching him everywhere -- your mind can't cling onto the sensation of skin, but you're touching him and he's touching you and that's enough. He kisses you like you're made of glass. You want him to claim you, to force you onto your knees and lap up his nook like it's a jug of water, to press your face into the carpet and fuck you raw and then slip inside the coon with him and watch the sun rise together from the window.

You _want_ it so much and your hands are shaking, _trembling,_ tears and spit coating your chin, because you're a fucking mess.

"KK, what's wrong?"

 _You're not here,_ you want to scream at him. _You've been dead for sweeps. I came home and I found the rooms demolished and you were as good as dead, and now you are, and I never even got to say goodbye --_

"Nothing," you whisper, pressing your face into his chest. He smells like nothing. He's been nothing forever, just dreams and hopes evaporated into empty longing, but you hold onto him and wish -- with all your heart and soul -- that he was here with you, holding you tight in his arms. Like you still mattered to him.

**Author's Note:**

> I might make more of these fics just to keep me on my toes. 
> 
> Welp.


End file.
